Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Xavier
It’s been three years. Three fucking years since I’ve heard her voice or listened to her laugh. Three fucking years since I’ve touched her or held her in my arms. Three fucking years, and I still love her as I did before she left.
The roar of the engine drowns out everything else.
Voices, thoughts, regrets. Out here, in the thick of dirt and adrenaline, nothing else exists.
The lights cut through the dust, turning the night hazy and unreal.
The smell of gas and burnt rubber clings to my skin, mixing with sweat and exhaustion.
I should feel something. The rush. The high. The need for more. Instead, there’s only her.
She’s everywhere. The songs that play on the radio are the ones she used to hum off-key to annoy me.
In the curve of a girl’s profile in the stands, close enough to make my chest seize before she turns and reminds me she’s not Izzy.
In the damn t-shirt I found at the bottom of my dresser last night, still smelling like her, like vanilla shampoo and something I’ll never be able to name.
I should have thrown it out. Should have burned it.
Instead, it’s shoved in the back seat of my truck, as if keeping it means keeping a piece of her.
I shake my head and roll my shoulders back, focusing on the race. Racing is the only thing that makes sense anymore. It’s simple. I press the gas, steer, and win. But tonight, nothing clicks into place.
I slam on the gas, shifting up as I barrel down the straightaway, the wheel's vibration buzzing up my arms. My knuckles go white as I grip it tighter, pushing the car past its limits, past mine.
Turn two comes barreling at me with barely any room for error. I take it too fast, knowing I should let up, but I don’t. The back end fishtails, and for half a second, I feel the car give as it slides out, tires screaming.
I don’t correct it right away. I let the chaos breathe. A split second of weightlessness. Of pure fucking recklessness.
I push the car harder, tires digging into the packed dirt, the engine screaming as I take the inside of turn three too sharp. The rear fishtails, and I let it, flirting with disaster, with the edge of control and chaos. Maybe if I push hard enough, I’ll feel something again.
One more lap, and I push my car harder. The guy next to me tries to slide into the space I left open, thinking he can take me. He’s wrong.
At the last possible moment, I yank the wheel, kicking up a thick spray of dirt as I straighten out and maintain my lead. He overcorrects, his car wobbling and losing momentum.
The crowd’s a blur beyond the fences, a wash of headlights and motion. I know they’re yelling, but I don’t hear them. I don’t hear anything but the engine roaring, the tires devouring the track, my pulse pounding in my skull.
Last lap.
I press the gas harder, pushing toward the finish line, but then, she’s there.
Not really. Just a ghost. But for a split second, I swear I see Izzy standing by our spot at turn two, hands stuffed in the pockets of that oversized hoodie she always stole from me, watching me like she used to. My chest seizes. It’s not her. It’s some random girl standing in Izzy’s spot.
I let the momentum slip, my foot hesitating enough to cost me everything.
The car I’ve been battling all night on my right surges forward, taking the inside and cutting me off before the line. I’m too late to correct it. And just like that, I lose.
The second I cross the line, I slam the brakes harder than I should, sending up a thick cloud of dirt. The other guy coasts through his victory lap, engine roaring, crowd cheering, but it barely registers.
I killed my own race. Because of her. Because no matter how hard I try to burn her out of me, she’s still fucking there.
I cut the engine and rip off my helmet, taking deep breaths that don’t seem to help. My pulse is still hammering. My hands are still shaking, not from fear but from the hollow fucking nothing gnawing at me from the inside out.
The guy who won pulls up beside me, all swagger and smugness, his helmet dangling from one hand. I recognize him as some asshole named Devlin, the kind of racer who thinks luck is skill and doesn’t know when to shut up.
He grins, tapping the roof of my car like we’re buddies. “Didn’t think you were the type to choke, Xavier.”
I stare at him, something dark curling in my chest.
He shrugs. “Guess I was wrong.”
“Didn’t think you were the type to win,” I shoot back, voice flat.
His smirk widens. “Guess you’re slipping.”
I climb out of my car and take a step forward, and before I even realize it, my fists are tightening. The world narrows to the urge to knock that smug fucking smile off his face.
Nolan steps in front of me before I can, a hand on my chest, shoving me back. “Not here, man,” he warns. His voice is low, serious.
I grit my teeth, the blood in my veins screaming for a fight, but I force myself to step back. My gaze remains locked on Devlin, who’s still grinning, still poking the bear.
“I don’t mind a fight,” Devlin says, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Might be the only thing you can win tonight.”
I lurch forward, but Nolan forces me back.
“Walk it off, Xavier.” His voice drops, sharp enough to cut.
It takes everything in me to step back, to tear my eyes away from Devlin and turn toward my car instead. I plant both hands on the roof, breathing deep, my muscles locked so tight it hurts. The world feels too fucking small.
Devlin laughs like he won twice tonight. “That’s what I thought.”
I don’t turn around. If I do, I won’t stop.
Nolan waits until Devlin walks off before he lets go of me. “What the hell is wrong with you tonight?”
I shake my head, shoving past him. “Nothing.”
He scoffs. “Bullshit.”
I don’t stick around to hear whatever lecture he’s got lined up. I grab my helmet and stalk toward my truck, ignoring the voices, the people, and the empty congratulations from guys who don’t know or don’t care I lost a race I should’ve won.
By the time I get in my truck, the anger’s burned off, leaving nothing but exhaustion. But that’s the worst part because it’s when she comes back. Not in the crowd. Not in the moment, but in my fucking head.
I can still hear her voice, the way she used to lean against the window and give me shit about my driving. You drive like you’ve got a death wish, X.
Maybe I do.
I sigh, dragging a hand down my face, then unlock my phone.
Izzy’s name is still there, along with the picture of the two of us in my contacts.
Still right where I left it. I hover over the keyboard, fingers flexing.
Three words. I miss you. I type them, then delete them.
In the end, I don’t send anything at all.
I’m back in my garage, and the overhead light flickers once before holding steady, buzzing faintly like it knows I don’t want to be here. Like it’s warning me.
The smell of oil and metal clings to everything, a familiar scent that usually calms me.
Not tonight. Tonight, it’s another reminder of her.
Of Izzy perched on the workbench, swinging her legs, sipping from my pop like it were hers.
Of the way she’d poke my ribs when I got too serious under the hood.
You overthink too much, X. Cars are simple. Gas, brake, go.
She loved being a smartass, even though she is the smartest mechanic around, other than me.
My jaw locks as I toss my keys onto the counter. The sound is too loud in the silence. I rip open the toolbox, though I’m not really looking for anything. I need my hands to move, to do something.
I grab a wrench and turn toward Izzy's race car, a Late Model UMP just like her dad’s.
She was going to fix it up and show the racing world she was here to stay until I fucked it all up.
I reach inside and pop the hood. I don’t need to fix anything, but I take the wrench to a bolt anyway, twisting harder than I should.
Tighter. Tighter. Too tight. The wrench slips, and my knuckles slam into the engine block. Pain flares hot and sharp, but I barely feel it.
I pull back and look at my hand, at the fresh scrape already welling with blood. Something inside me snaps.
With a growl, I launch the wrench across the garage. It clatters against the tool chest, knocking over a row of sockets. They scatter, tiny metallic echoes bouncing off the concrete. My breathing is ragged, my pulse pounding. And then I lose it.
I grab the nearest thing, a rusted old carburetor sitting on the bench, and hurl it at the wall. It smashes, pieces clattering to the floor. I don’t stop. A rag, a screwdriver, a fucking chair. Everything within reach gets thrown. The dull thud of impact isn’t enough. Nothing is.
I don’t stop until my chest is heaving, my hands are shaking, and my vision blurs with unshed tears. How did my life get so fucked up? How did I lose the one person who meant the world to me? Why did this happen?
My head drops, hands braced against the workbench, blood from my knuckles smearing against the wood.
A voice cuts through the chaos. “Feel better?”
I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Nolan. I close my eyes, my shoulders rising and falling in a shaking motion. No.
The garage door creaks, then soft footsteps. A second presence. Mia. She doesn’t say a word, walks over, grabs a rag, and reaches for my hand. I jerk back on instinct, but she doesn’t let go.
“You’re bleeding, dumbass,” she gripes, tugging my wrist. “Sit.”
I don’t. But I don’t fight her, either. She presses the rag against my knuckles, the sting sharp and grounding.
Nolan leans against the workbench, arms crossed. “You want to talk about it?”
I huff a humorless laugh. “No.”
“Cool. Then shut up and let us fix you.”
I don’t have the energy to argue. So I let Mia clean the blood from my hands. Let Nolan sit there in silence, present without pushing. Let myself breathe.
And for the first time since I saw Izzy’s ghost on that track, I don’t feel like I’m drowning anymore.
Too bad it’s only temporary.